Midnight.
For more than an hour they had remained in their cramped hiding place,
waiting. Brennan smoked innumerable cigarettes while they talked in
whispers. A policeman had walked through the alley peering into the
shadows and they had crouched breathless until he passed them.
The noise of the city had quieted. Except for an occasional street car
or passing automobile a silence brooded over the downtown district.
Stray cats appeared to rummage in battered cans and a huge rat darted
between their legs.
The cool of the night, Southern California's balm to aid sleep "knit up
the raveled sleeve of care," chilled them. Murphy took frequent "nips"
from a flask, which he offered generously to his companions each time
before he put it to his mouth. Brennan told them stories of experiences
in the Canadian northwest and adventures in a "comic opera" revolution
in Central America. Murphy supplied anecdotes of the ring, things he had
seen and done as a second at boxing matches. John listened to them,
enraptured.
Somewhere a clock struck the half hour, and as the sound died away they
heard quick footsteps approaching them. Murphy looked cautiously around
the corner of the brick wall and brought himself back with a jerk.
"It's them," he said, in a hoarse whisper. He stepped back to make room
for John and Brennan at the narrow aperture looking out on the alley.
Two figures passed their hiding place, walking hurriedly. The taller of
the two strode with a quick, easy step that John recognized.
"That's Gibson," he said in a sharp whisper.
"It certainly is," corroborated Brennan. "And it's the 'Gink' with him."
They watched the figures until they halted at the rear of the saloon.
They saw Cummings reach in his pocket for the key and open the door
while Gibson glanced up and down the alley. When they had disappeared
into the building Brennan stepped out into the alley, motioning to
Murphy and John to follow him.
Again in single file, with Murphy taking the lead from Brennan, they
walked warily toward the saloon, holding close to the back walls of
buildings so as not to be seen from either end of the alley. Murphy
removed the padlock from the basement door and opened it with
precautionary slowness to minimize the rasping of the rusty hinges. He
closed it again when they had entered the impenetrable darkness of the
basement.
Led by Murphy, who held the flashlight, they went ahead on tiptoe until
they reached a spot which they judged was directly beneath the little
room in which they believed Cummings and Gibson were in surreptitious
conference. There they strained their ears to catch the sound of voices
above them. John's heart thumped against his ribs and he imagined his
breathing sounded like a gust of wind. The floor of the room above was
less than three feet above their heads.
A chair scraped on the floor. Then they heard voices. Tense, holding
their breath, they poised in utter silence, straining to distinguish
what was being said by the two in the room above their heads. John felt
a sinking sensation of disappointment as he realized it would be
impossible for them to hear the conversation between the "Gink" and
Gibson from where they were listening. The voices that came down to them
were jumbled, faint, indistinguishable. Once Gibson laughed. Again the
two voices above them stopped suddenly as if the two conspirators had
heard a warning sound.
Brennan signaled to them a moment later, when the two voices were
audible again, to leave. Murphy snapped the padlock on the door and
they crept back to their hiding place between the two buildings.
"There was no need for us to stay there any longer," said Brennan. "We
couldn't hear a word. There's only one way to get what we want and that
is to use a dictograph. We'll have to run a wire with an 'ear' on it
into that room, somehow. Do you think we can do it, Murphy?"
"Sure thing," Murphy replied.
"The sooner the better," said Brennan. "We'll try to get it in tomorrow
night. With a dictograph we can get every word that's said. We can bring
a shorthand reporter with us and get it down in black and white. In the
meantime we'll wait here and see them when they come out."
Shortly before one o'clock they heard footsteps that told them Gibson
and Cummings were returning from their conference. Directly opposite the
aperture between the two buildings, where they were hiding, the taller
of the two figures stopped and striking a match held the flame, cupped
in his two hands, to the end of a cigar. The light of the match
flickered only for a second, but in that time John and Brennan saw
Gibson's face clearly. Tossing the burned match to the ground he
quickened his steps until he was again at Cummings' side and they went
from sight around the corner.
"He couldn't have done it better if we had asked him to," commented
Brennan, referring to the light Gibson had thrown on his face by
lighting the match. "I wonder what he'd do if he knew that we were
watching him as he did it."
"Swallowed da stogie," Murphy suggested.
"Tomorrow night, same time and place: 10 o'clock at Second and Spring,"
Brennan instructed Murphy before they separated.
"I'll be there," agreed Murphy, walking from them.
"Just a minute, Murphy," called Brennan, "you forgot something."
Murphy halted.
"What?" he asked.
"You forgot to put a 'see?' on the end of 'I'll be there.'"
Murphy grinned, waved his hand and went his way.
The next morning after only a few hours' sleep, John and Brennan told P.
Q. and the "chief" of their discovery. Brennan's plan for the use of the
dictograph was approved and they were commended for their enterprise.
"If you put this over," the city editor told John, "I'll double your
salary."
It was P. Q. who suggested that Benton, the photographer, accompany
them and endeavor to obtain a picture of Cummings and Gibson together.
"That would cinch it," he said. "If we could print a picture of Gibson
and the 'Gink' it would be irrefutable proof of the conspiracy."
"It would be risky business; might spoil everything," Brennan
remonstrated.
"Could it be done this way?" said P. Q. "While you and Gallant are in
the basement with Murphy and a shorthand man, Benton can fix himself
outside the door so that when Gibson and Cummings come out he can shoot
a flashlight. He can have an automobile close and make a quick getaway
by jumping into it. When you have enough of the conversation between
Gibson and the 'Gink' you can come outside, tip Benton to be ready and
wait for him in the machine. They can't chase you. By the time they get
a machine you should be a mile away from them."
"All right, P. Q., we'll try it that way," agreed Brennan. "Benton had
better be with us tonight. Whose automobile shall we use and who'll
drive it? It must be someone we can trust."
"You can arrange that to suit yourselves," said P. Q.
"Don't be afraid to spend money," said the publisher. "It's a big thing
you're going to do, boys, and I won't forget you, whether you succeed or
not."
That afternoon they obtained the dictograph. It was loaned them by
Hubert Kittle, aviator, former police officer, one-time contender for
the heavyweight pugilistic championship of the navy, dare-devil and
adventurer. Later in the day Ben Smith, official court reporter and one
of the fastest and most accurate shorthand men in the country, agreed to
share in their adventure.
"I'd trust Ben with my life," Brennan remarked to John later. "If there
ever was a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut, it's Ben. Whenever
the district attorney's office or the police or the sheriff have
something really big, something that must be kept absolutely secret,
they call him in and he never has failed them."
"What about the machine and the driver?" John asked.
"That's what has me stumped," Brennan admitted. "Most all of the taxi
drivers are lined up with the 'Gink' in some way or another. We must
have someone we can not only rely upon, but who can drive. Believe me,
Gallant, we can't afford to take any chances."
From Ben Smith's office in the Hall of Justice building they went to the
city hall to break the news of their discovery of the meeting place of
Gibson and Cummings to the mayor. While Brennan was telling the story
and describing how they had planned to obtain a written report of the
conversation between Gibson and the "Gink" by use of the dictograph, the
mayor sat perched on the edge of his chair, his eyes gleaming with
pent-up excitement. When Brennan had finished he bounced up and circled
the desk with quick strides to shake them both by the hand.
"You've done it, boys, you've done it," he said.
Then he turned his face from them and drew a handkerchief from his
pocket.
"Don't mind me," he said, dabbing with the handkerchief at his eyes.
"I'm an old fool. But I've been under a terrible strain, boys, these
last few weeks and what you told me was almost too good to be true."
He turned to face them as quickly as he had turned away, and he was
smiling.
"What about tonight?" he asked. "Is there anyway I can help you? Are you
all fixed?"
"All we need is a fast machine and a good driver," said Brennan.
"Someone we can trust and rely upon. Can you suggest anyone?"
"I certainly can," said the mayor.
"Who?"
The mayor's face brightened.
"The mayor of Los Angeles," he said.
"You mean----"
"I mean it," assured the mayor. "I have the fastest car that can be
bought and I'm not afraid to step on it. What more do you want?"
"It's a go!" exclaimed Brennan, and they shook hands all around.
John long remembered the meeting between the mayor and Murphy when they
assembled at Second and Spring streets that night at ten o'clock. Oddly
it was the mayor who was flustered when the two were introduced by
Brennan, probably because he felt he owed so much to the scrawny youth
who stood before him.
"Murphy, my boy, I--I--I don't know how to thank you," the mayor began
and then, fearing that sounded too stiff and formal, he added, "If I'm
re-elected it will be largely because of what you've done and you can
have the best job I've got to offer."
"I got my own reasons for doin' what I've done, see?" said Murphy, "but
I'll take you up on dat job offer of yours if we come through all right,
see?"
"You're--you're--you're all right, Murphy," returned the mayor.
They sat in the mayor's automobile while Brennan outlined the detailed
plans for their expedition.
"When they close up for the night, Murphy, Gallant and I will go in and
rig up the dictograph," he said. "Ben, you might as well come along with
us. It would be taking too much of a chance for one of us to go out and
get you.
"Mr. Mayor, you'll park your car close to the alley and wait with Benton
until one of us comes out. Then you'll drive to within a few yards of
the rear door of the saloon and keep your motor going, while Benton sets
up his camera. When we have enough of their conversation we'll come out
and get in the car with you.
"One of us will stand by Benton--I'll do it--until he shoots his flash
as Cummings and Gibson come out. Benton and I will run for the machine
and as soon as we hop on the running board, Mr. Mayor, you start--going.
Don't stop for anything and remember to turn your lights off while
you're waiting. Now, does everyone understand?"
Each signified that he knew his part.
"One slip will ruin everything," Brennan warned them. "It's our one
chance and a mistake will be costly. If something happens and the
mayor's car stalls, Gallant and I will stay behind to handle the 'Gink'
and Gibson and the rest of you beat it. You, too, Murphy, do you
understand? Gallant and I can take care of ourselves."
They waited until after eleven o'clock before they left the corner of
Second and Spring in the mayor's car. It was Saturday night and there
were twice as many people on the streets at that hour than during the
week days. As their paper published no Sunday edition, John and Brennan
realized that if they were successful the exposure of the
Gibson-Cummings' plot could not be made until Monday or Tuesday at the
earliest, which would be three or four days before the primary election,
scheduled for Thursday.
At Brennan's order the mayor drove the automobile up and down Spring
street, from Second to Eighth and back. Each trip as they passed the
saloon they watched for signs of it being closed for the night. At
half-past eleven they saw that the lights were extinguished, the doors
closed and the steel lattice work drawn across the open front to protect
the cigar stand for the night.
The mayor swung the automobile into the first street intersecting Spring
street, toward Main, stopping it at Brennan's instructions so that it
could be driven into the alley without difficulty. Brennan, Smith,
Murphy and John left the machine and hurried into the alley. Murphy
carried a brace and bit hidden under his coat. John's left arm was
stiff at his side from a steel bar thrust up into the sleeve and Brennan
carried the dictograph in a paper package under his arm.
Holding close to the shadows of the brick wall, they walked rapidly to
the basement door, opening it and entering quickly. Murphy and Smith
were posted at the door to act as guard and to watch for the arrival of
Gibson and Cummings. Brennan and John went directly to the trap door at
the top of the stairs at the front of the basement. Brennan pushed
upward against the door, but it held fast against his strength. John
handed him the steel bar. A thrust, a wrench, a tearing of decayed wood
and the door yielded. They scrambled through to the floor of the saloon,
finding themselves within a few feet of the room where they were to
"plant" the dictograph.
"Luck is with us this time," said Brennan as they saw that the door of
the room was open. He knelt in the open space between the tiers of
drawers on either side of the desk that filled one side of the room. In
half a minute the brace was boring into the wood of the flooring.
Through the hole cut through the floor Brennan pushed the wires of the
dictograph until their entire length disappeared into the basement and
the "ear" of the eavesdropping device was flat over the perforation. He
swept up the shavings from the boring of the hole with his hands as they
hurried back down into the basement, where they found the end of the
wire dangling from the ceiling. Brennan assembled the dictograph
rapidly, attaching to it three head-pieces with receivers clamping over
the ears.
"We'll test it," he said to John. "Scoot upstairs and say something in a
natural tone in all parts of the room. Try to talk at about the pitch
you believe they will speak and drop your voice to a whisper
occasionally. Ben and I will listen."
While Brennan and Smith waited with the headgears John followed orders,
returning to the basement when he believed he had talked to himself long
enough to make the test accurate.
"Works perfectly," Brennan told him.
"Heard every word you said. We're all set and ready to go."
John glanced at his watch. It was five minutes after twelve. They made
themselves as comfortable as possible on the empty packing boxes. Smith
produced his notebooks and a handful of carefully sharpened pencils.
A picture of Consuello as she appeared when she stood beside the window
with its red geraniums, reciting the verse in which she found heart
comfort, flashed into John's mind. He closed his eyes to hold the vision
in his imagination. It faded away, and another picture took its place, a
mental miniature of Consuello as he had last seen her, standing in the
doorway, silhouetted in the soft rose light behind her. He saw her hand
flutter and the door close. Could it be that with the intuition of a
daughter of Eve she knew that he loved her? Could it be that she----
"Brennan," he said, "what is that verse of Kipling's that starts 'So
long as 'neath the hills' or something like that?"
In the tiny glow of Brennan's cigarette John noticed a hint of a smile
on the other's lips as he recited:
"So long as 'neath the Kalka hills
The Tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
The hard-held ponies swing,
So long as Tara Divi sees
The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
And duty drives us down,
If you love me as I love you.
What pair so happy as we two?"
He paused.
"That's it," John said. "There's another part of it that says something
about 'all earth being servant'; how does it go?"
Brennan continued:
"By all that lights our daily life
Or works our lifelong woe,
From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs
And those grim glades below,
Where, heedless of the flying hoof
And clamor overhead,
Sleep, with the grey langur for guard,
Our very scornful Dead.
If you love me as I love you,
All Earth is servant to us two."
He paused again.
"That's it," said John.
"That's a hell of a thing to be thinking about now," said Brennan.
"I know it," John returned.
For several minutes they were silent. John thought he saw Brennan give
Smith a significant glance.
"By the way, Gallant," Brennan asked, "how is your friend, Consuello?"
"I'm to have dinner with her and Gibson the night he is elected mayor,"
John replied, remembering Gibson's invitation.
"Who arranged that?" asked Brennan.
"Gibson."
"I'm afraid we're going to spoil your little dinner party," said
Brennan, smiling.
"That verse you just recited for me doesn't rhyme if you make it 'three'
instead of 'two,'" John countered.
"You win," conceded Brennan. "What time is it getting to be?"
John looked at his watch.
"Quarter to one," he answered. "What if they don't show----"
A shaft of light shot through the darkness from the door. It was the
prearranged signal from Murphy to inform them that Gibson and Cummings
were approaching. As if jerked by cords held in a single hand they
straightened up from their lounging positions.
They heard the door open at the rear above them and footsteps on the
floor, approaching until the noise was directly over their heads. Dust
shook down on them from the grimy ceiling.
Simultaneously they pulled on their headgears and listened.